The Private Journal of One Ms Sherlock Holmes
by Rookie Cookie Baked Crispy
Summary: Post- Reichenbach, Fem!Sherlock. While the detective is out solving a case, the good doctor discovers a small, black book that suspiciously resembles a journal.
1. First Entry, First Admission

First chappie of a fic I've been dying to write! John reads the journal Sherlock kept after her "suicide". Hope you like it, and hope you'll leave feedback too. No flames, please; I used my last fire extinguisher when I accidentally set my kitchen on fire. Thankees muchly!

Oh, and I almost forgot: Own not, profit not, sue not.

-Rookie Cookie Baked Crispy

* * *

John,

I feel secure in writing this because I know you'll never read it. Mycroft has insisted I keep a journal, to record my "feelings" during my exile; bloody insufferable git. You know I've never enjoyed talking about things I don't really understand, so I'm going to pretend I'm writing to you to make this a bit more bearable. You would know what to say to make me feel better, always know what advice was proper for whatever situation. I'm hesitant to admit that I'm starting to miss you, not because I'm not sure if I do(believe me, I'm sure,) but because to do so means that I'm not so untouchable, that I… that I haven't forgotten how to care. That frightens me, John. To care is to be vulnerable, and I don't like being vulnerable. I've only ever been hurt, and I was so sure I'd found the solution to that problem, but then you came along and flushed that theory down the loo. I know you would never hurt me; that's not who you are. But if someone tried to get to me through you… it would work, John. That's why I faked my own death. To protect you. Moriarty threatened to kill you.

Be safe, John. Be safe.- SH

* * *

John Watson gaped as he read and reread the small, neat handwriting. Had he seriously found the private journal of Sherlock Holmes? Had she really written to him for some measure of comfort? Had she really seen him at her funeral? Had she really admitted to caring for him? Sherlock was out for the day on a trivial case that gave her an excuse to stretch her legs, and she'd waved off his offer to accompany her with a short, "Relax. You've been working long shifts, John. Your eyes and lack of deodorant are telling. Get some rest."

He hadn't argued. After she left in a whirl of scarves and coats, he showered, took a nap, then looked for something to read while he had lunch. Sherlock had used his newspaper in some inane experiment, so he searched for something else. Quite by accident, he'd knocked over the bookshelf beside the window, only to discover it was double- sided. There were shelves on the back, but they housed only a single item: a small, velvet- cover book that appeared to be a sort of journal with Sherlock's name monogrammed in small gold print on the front. He grinned evilly as he plucked it from the shelf and settled in with his sandwich and book. Sherlock wasn't due back "till tomorrow, so he could read at his leisure. And so he read the first entry. He'd completely forgotten his sandwich after realizing she'd written mock- letters to him, of all people. He shook his head to dispel the memories of that day, the day of her funeral. He'd never felt so hollow, so hurt. He reminded himself daily that the detective had done it to protect him, but that didn't stop the deceit from hurting. But reading those last two lines really drove home Sherlock's earnestness in protecting her loved ones. Those three simple words, he knew, would be ones he would treasure 'till the day he died. _"Be safe, John."_


	2. Second Entry, First Realization

John,

I apologize for the atrocious handwriting. I had a rather nasty shock last night, and I don't exaggerate when I say I believe my heart actually stopped for a moment. Someone was after you. One of Moriarty's cohorts was under orders to kill you before I "died", and Moriarty never managed to call him off. The bugger tried to get into your flat with a switchblade. I managed to pull him into an alleyway and dispatch him after a quiet, yet lengthy scrap. I've ended up with several lacerations to my ribs and arms, a black eye, a few broken knuckles, and a bruised cheek. But that doesn't matter. You're safe. He didn't get to you. You're alright. Mycroft stopped by and saw my condition; I've only ever seen him that angry once before. He yelled at me, ranting about how "reckless" I was, and how I had no consideration for his own feelings. At first I couldn't figure out what his feelings had to do with my saving you, but when I asked him, the blighter up and hugged me. John, he's only ever hugged me three times, and those were after I got into fights with my father. It was so strange, but at the same time, nothing had ever felt quite that good. It felt… special. I hugged him back, and we just stood like that for a while.

When I started writing my entry for today, I was reminded of the fight. I've been in countless life- threatening fights, John, but this was different. That man nearly made it inside your building. That's when my heart stopped. I was so scared he would kill you. You wouldn't have even ha the chance to defend yourself. My god, I was so scared, John. You have no idea what it was like, thinking you were going to die… and you never will, because I don't want to tell you. I'm such a coward. I think that's why my hand is shaking; because I was afraid for you. But you're safe now. That's what matters. I… I miss you, John. I miss having you here with me. I'm not accustomed to feeling so lonely, especially when I'm on a case, but I can't help it. No one can take your place as my assistant. They are neither suitable nor acceptable. They aren't you.

I miss you. -SH

* * *

John had finished his sandwich before reading this entry, and was draped over the sofa Sherlock usually occupied. He was angry; she'd been right outside his flat, fighting, and had left him to wallow in grief. But he quickly reminded himself that he wasn't the only one hurting; his heart quivered as he reread the line, "I was afraid for you." And her final line had his eyes pricking: 'I miss you." She'd gotten herself beaten and cut up protecting him, and he was struck all over again by her surprising selflessness. She had changed a lot since they'd first met at St. Bartholomew's, and mostly for the better, thanks to his patience and her willingness to learn socially acceptable behavior, but this was something that couldn't be taught. Sherlock Holmes knew the meaning of sacrifice, had practiced it for him, and never spoke a word of it to him. He felt a blooming warmth in his chest as he ruminated on the detective's words. He realized, she was something special, even without her brilliant mind.

* * *

A/N: What d' you think? Any good? I tried, honest. Please tell me your thoughts! - RCBC


	3. Third Entry, Second Admission

John,

I am in great pain. Writing these letters to you eases the pain somewhat, but not nearly enough. There has been a lull in this final case, and I. Am. BORED. I've never told you why I'm so disagreeable when I'm bored. Even Mycroft doesn't know. Everyone assumes I'm just being petulant or immature. The truth is, I'm in pain. My brain works very much like your stomach; it digests information like your stomach would digest food, and when it isn't fed, problems arise. My brain needs to be constantly working, John. If I stop using my mind for an extended period of time, with the exception of sleep, I get severe migraines. Trust me when I say that I'm not exaggerating; they are incapacitating. When I was younger, I was able to stave the migraines off by solving Rubik's cube puzzles, but they're far too easy now. Only cases have been able to ease the pain. This lull has lasted only one day, and already, I'm finding it difficult to focus my vision.

I never told you, and I never will, but being with you changed me in many ways. You even changed the migraines. They used to be so painful before I met you, but after you moved into 221 B, they weren't so bad. Perhaps it was your unremitting calm, no matter what was going on outside our flat. You were always relaxed, even when you were angry with me for whatever reason, and I don't think I ever told you just how much I appreciated that. Item 27 on my list of regrets. The moment I met you, you reminded me of a mountain. Nothing could move your steady calm, and it didn't come from the military. It was a natural gift. At this point, you would ask either, "How could you know it's natural?", or "I thought you didn't do all that spiritual nonsense." Well, balls to that. I pretend I'm unattached, but it's a load of rubbish. I just want to protect myself. As you know, I didn't have a great childhood, and it has left me rather jaded.

My father hated me (and don't tell me he didn't, because he told me in his own words), Mycroft was painfully absent for most of my younger years, and my mother was forced into an early grave by pancreatic cancer. Watching my mother waste away in mere weeks killed me inside. I tried to find a cure. I made bounding progress in cancer- cure research, but I never found a way to save her. My mother was the only person in my life that openly loved me, and she was the only person who ever defended me from my father' s drunken rages. Yes, he drank; not often, but when he did, two empty bottles of whiskey ended up in the rubbish bin the next morning. John, I _loved_ my mother, _adored_ her. When they lowered her into the ground, I felt a terrible coldness take hold of my heart, like icy talons crushing the vital organ. It hurt so much, I cannot even begin to describe it. A darkness veiled my eyes, and I saw my father look up from my mother's casket and stare at me. His gaze, John; it has haunted me for years. I'd never seen him so sad, but that wasn't what burned this memory into my mind. It was the raw, unadulterated hate. We all knew it was nigh- on impossible for a sixteen- year- old to find the cure to cancer, but that hadn't stopped me from trying, nor my father from trying to close the rift between us, for her sake. He threw his own energy into my research, giving me near- limitless resources. As you know, it wasn't enough.

I knew right when he looked at me over Mother's grave, he blamed me for not saving her. He blamed me for failing to save his wife. And do you know what? So do I. At this point, you would tell me to stop blaming myself for something that wasn't my fault, but I just can't. I've tried, believe me. I want to be able to move on from that realization, but it's like my feet are entrenched in a bog, and I can't get out, no matter how hard I try. The pain changed me, made me cold. If I was cold, no one could hurt me the way my parents did, my mother by her absence, my father by his anger. Intentionally or not, they broke me inside. I can't be repaired.

When you moved in, though, I was able to pretend that I wasn't so broken. You didn't resent me for being who I was, encouraged me, even. Since mother's death, you were the kindest person I ever knew.

I'm not going to lie to you(well, technically, by not telling you, I am). You made me happy. More happy than you'll ever know. I'm sorry for all the pain I've ever caused you, because you deserve so much better than what I've given you, so much better than _me_. I saw you and Mrs. Hudson at my grave. I saw you hurting, and it nearly ruined me. I truly hate deceiving you this way, truly loath myself for causing you such pain. If it hadn't been for Mycroft's presence, I would have gone to you in that graveyard. I would have held you in my arms. You taught me how to care again, doctor.

Perhaps, when I come home, I should thank Mycroft. My head has stopped pounding, and writing in this little book has been surprisingly… cathartic. I feel more spent than ever before, but the ache in my heart is somewhat dulled, and I might rest easy tonight. Sometimes I wonder if I might give you this journal when I return. I thought once that it would be absurd, but now, I am not sure. Perhaps I should tell you…no, I am too exhausted to think anymore. Perhaps I'll ruminate on this when I wake up. For now, goodnight, John. Sleep well. - SH

* * *

John had his fist pressed tightly against his mouth, and he could feel hot tears coursing down his face. All this time, ever since their first moment in St. Bart's… He was touched, beyond measure, to know that he'd made such a significant difference in her sad life. In that moment, John Watson knew that he would never, in a million years, do anything that would hurt her. In her own way, she'd admitted that she needed him, and he swore to himself that he would not let her down.

* * *

John- Jacob- Jingleheimer- Schmidt! His name is my name, too! Which means I'm married to him, WOOOO! No, just kidding. I in no way own John Watson or Sherlock Holmes, and thus cannot be sued, especially since I ain't gettin' paid for this. Although, review are the currency of the Fanfiction world!*Hint hint*. Ahem, anywho, thought I'd just say thanks to those of you who have given my story a chance and taken the time to review, follow, and favorite. Truly, it means a lot to me! Thanks! Until next chapter. - RCBC


	4. Fourth Chapter, John's Realization

There were regular entries between these poignant word vomits, mostly strategic notes about cases in barely- legible handwriting, and John was highly amused by the hastily written entry, addressed to him, of course, explaining a plan of revenge against Mycroft for some slight. He could imagine her, bent over the little book, scribbling intently with a devious smirk on her pretty face. According to her plan, she would attach a catapult-like device to the inside wall of one of her brother's flats at mouth- level, and the trigger would be the door opening. The ammunition would be mushy avocado, Mycroft's least favorite food. She had even drawn out diagrams and recorded the necessary measurements to carry out this wily scheme. The next entry was quite legible, and John was able to thoroughly enjoy the recounting of Mycroft's successful punishment. Glee oozed out of every word, and the doctor couldn't help but feel cheered at the thought of Sherlock enjoying herself after the hell she'd been through.

His phone chirped, and he reluctantly lifted his head to look at the window. To his surprise, it was dark outside. Rolling his neck, he dug his mobile out of his back pocket to find a text from Sherlock herself. It read:

_"Case solved. The construction worker is the murderer. Should be in by one. - SH"_

John smiled fondly at the screen, until he realized she would know he'd read her journal. Why, oh, **why,** had he thought this was a good idea? While she treated John with more respect and kindness than anyone else, Sherlock could still make his life a living hell for this, and he would still stick around, because he was hopelessly-

John frowned; hopelessly what? What made him stay after everything she'd put him through? She had asked him to endure so many things that would make any other man run, screaming, for the hills; anger, crime, even grief. So why hadn't he started running or screaming? Well, he had done a lot of running and screaming since he'd met Sherlock Holmes, but it was always towards her, never away. What made him follow Sherlock everywhere? After her fake death, he'd come to terms with the fact that he did indeed harbor strong, unresolved feelings for her that were not strictly platonic, but what he felt exactly for the charismatic detective remained a mystery to him. Delving into those feelings to explore them before she'd returned from the dead made the already- agonizing pain of her "suicide" fester and embitter. When she'd returned to him, he'd been too distracted by his anger, relief, and general elation. He remembered the first night she'd spent back at 221 B baker Street.

_She seemed almost normal, except for how close she stood to John as they entered the flat they'd shared for so long. John had never had the heart to pack away her things; it had felt like desecrating something sacred. Her bright blue- green eyes darted around the living room, as astute and observant as ever, noting every little detail in seconds. John noticed how those eyes lingered on her couch, and he realized she'd deduced that no one had sat there since her "death". Her eyes softened a bit, and she turned to look at him._

_**"I take it you haven't rented out?"**_ _She had asked in what could only be described as a timid voice. John shook his head._

_**"Never had the heart to rent out your room. Couldn't really see myself sharing 221 B with anyone else."**_

That had been several weeks ago. She'd been tip- toeing ever since, restraining herself from snarking, blowing things up, leaving undesirable organs in inconvenient places, and generally being not- Sherlock. It was really grating on John's nerves. He wanted her back. He wanted _his_ Sherlock back. He'd gone long enough without her already. _Blimey,_ he thought as the realization hit him. _I need her. I need her with me again._ Looking back down at her journal, his throat felt tight, and a pressure was building behind his eyes. He blinked hard, trying to clear his suddenly blurry vision. Quickly, he glanced at his mobile's clock, which read 10:03. Clearing his throat loudly, he tucked it away and shifted his gaze back to the pages Sherlock had abused and worshipped in equal measure.


	5. Final Realization and Admission

A thousand apologies for the horrendous delay. Read on, review much!

* * *

John,

I think I've finally gotten the name of the last of Moriarty's associates! If I can just convict him, I can come home! I can barely contain my excitement, but I know Mycroft can see right through me. Surprisingly enough, he has been nothing but kind to me since all of this started. But that's not the point. Soon, John, soon, I'll get to see you, and you'll see me, too. I won't have to hide from you. I can hardly wait! Bloody hell, Anthea's come to pester me again. Wait, that isn't Anthea. Footsteps are too heavy, and they're trying at stealth. Only Mycroft and Anthea know where I am. Someone is looking for me.

* * *

There was a break in the paragraph, and John was alarmed when he found a small splatter of dried blood staining the page.

* * *

I'm coming home. It was Moran; the White Hunter. You know him. He figured it out. He realized I was still alive. He came after me, and now he's coming after you. I've alerted Mycroft to the situation, but I'm not waiting for reinforcements. I'm needed now, and, dammit, I will not abandon you again! You mean far too much to me… oh, blimey. John, I think I love you. I might not survive this last case, and even if I do, I'll never be brave enough to tell you. I'm more frightened than I've ever been before. I'm frightened for you. Moran won't stop until he's killed you, or someone kills him. Moran is the last of Moriarty's associates, but even if he's captured, I'm still going to be afraid. I hurt you, as I always seem to do, and I don't know if you'll forgive me this time. You have every right not to. Necessity doesn't really lessen the sting of betrayal. I know from experience. I just wish I could have the courage to tell you.

I love you, John. I love you so much. - SH

* * *

John's hands were frozen, holding open the little, remarkable book that told the story of Sherlock's heart. Those three little words, so small and simple, changed everything. He sat there on the couch for a good twenty minutes, just staring at those three word, repeating them to himself in his head. Only when the clock chimed on the half-hour did he snap out of it, and when he did, he let out a soft chuckle. His lips quirked up in a smile, and he felt happier than he'd been in a very long time. He'd recently lost his heart, and now he knew who'd stolen it.

* * *

Short, I know, but this isn't the end, my dears! Keep your eyes open for the next chapter. I'm currently on vacation, so I've got plenty of time to update! Until next chapter! Review!


	6. First Realization Redux

Well, here's the next chapter, loves! Hope you'll like it enough to leave a review! I worked hard on this one, trying to get it just right. Only the best for my dear readers. Enjoy, and review!-RCBC

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John did his best to put the journal back exactly as it was, but knew Sherlock would eventually figure out he'd read it. He was lightly dozing on the couch when she got back. He could hear the stairs creak quietly as she tried to avoid waking him.

"Sherlock?" he called in a bleary voice.

"I'm here," she said softly, slipping into the room like a phantom. In the semi- darkness, he could see her yawning. "Sorry for waking you," she said. That wasn't right. Sherlock never apologized. John could stand it no longer.

"Stop- stop that right now." he commanded sharply, jaw clenching. He could see her freeze, becoming absolutely still.

"What? What did I do?" she asked almost fearfully. John gritted his teeth to hold back the impatience. She didn't understand what was wrong, she just needed an explanation, he reminded himself.

"That. Just- Stop being not- you. Stop being not- Sherlock." He sat up on the sofa, fully awake now. "You've been pussy- footing for the past four weeks, and I can't stand it anymore, Sherlock. You were gone for three years, and it hurt- it bloody hurt. You've come back, but you're acting like a completely different person, and it's like you're not back at all, and-" John stopped to catch his breath, closing his eyes. "Please just be Sherlock. Be my Sherlock; can you do that? Can you do that, just for me?"

John felt the sofa dip slightly as Sherlock sat beside him. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. She was looking at him with those pretty little eyes, eyes that said a lot more than those pretty little lips. She met his gaze for a moment, then shifted her whole body to rest against him. She nestled her head under his jaw in a restive position. He blinked.

"Sherlock? What-?" he began.

"Shhhh. I'm tired, and you're comfortable. Besides, you're sitting on my couch. As this sofa's rightful owner, I maintain the right to treat trespassers as my personal pillows." Sherlock murmured against his collar bone, her warm breath tickling his skin. He felt her thin arms wrap around his torso as Sherlock essentially cuddled into him. Without a second thought, his own, much thicker arms wound around her small frame and pulled her closer. His eyes slid shut as they sat there silently, holding each other. True, this was not Sherlock behavior, but after reading the journal, he knew this was real, genuine. Sherlock listened intently to John's heartbeat, her head rising and falling steadily with his chest as he breathed.

"Sorry, John." she murmured. "I was afraid to make you angry again. I didn't want to upset you anymore."

"Don't be. If you're not yourself, I don't approve. Alright?" John rested his cheek on the top of her head.

"'Kay." she replied in sleepy voice.

"I think it's time you got to bed," John stated.

Sherlock surprised him by squeezing him slightly. "Can we stay here tonight? Please?"

Momentarily, John was confused. "Why?"

"Because you're not the only one who was alone for three years. I… I missed my blogger. I missed you, John." While she said this, she kept her face hidden against the crook of his neck. He could actually feel her blush, her skin heating up as she admitted it. He fought back a small smile and nodded.

"Sure, Sherlock. No problem." Carefully, he leaned down until he was on his back and Sherlock was nestled against his side. He expected it to be a tight fit on the small sofa, but he'd underestimated just how skinny Sherlock had become while they were separated. She was about as tall as him, but less than half his size when it came to measuring width. The doctor was slightly alarmed by the noticeable weight loss of his already- lean companion, and almost told her so, but stopped himself when he heard her yawn quietly. It could wait until morning.

* * *

Sooooo... what do you think? too sappy? Not sappy enough? Leave me a comment, let me know! My vacation is quickly coming to a close, so an update may not come for a while. Yep, that's right. This story is_ still _not over. Stay tuned!-RCBC


	7. First Admission Redux

**Alright, doods, I had to drag this chapter out of my head, kicking and screaming. Wouldja give my poor, mangled brain a review as a reward? Pretty please? Also, I realize that I haven't actually thanked those of you who have reviewed. Please know that your kind words are not taken for granted and that I am grateful to every single one of you who have reviewed, favorited, and followed this story. Your encouraging words are what inspire me.-RCBC**

* * *

It had been a very, very long week for Doctor Watson. He'd been running about for the lesser part of the week with Sherlock, hot on the trail of the serial killer dubbed, "The Scarlet Scythe". The better part of his week was spent in the Surgery unit, elbow deep in gore and paperwork alike, and his patience was running dangerously low. Add to that a shortage of proper tea brands, Sherlock being Sherlock, a nurse that continually nagged at him to go on a coffee break with her, Mycroft insisting he sift through Sherlock's bloody laundry, and a picture of a scythe on his wall that was, as proven by Anderson, painted in actual blood( DNA showed it belonged to the Scarlet Scythe's latest victim), and you got John Watson with a temper as short as a sneeze. The poor man would either snap and become a serial killer himself, or simply throw himself in front of a moving car. Preferably a fast one.

When he finally finished his shift on Friday evening, he found himself looking forward to a quiet night of hot tea, his blog, and some of Sherlock's thinking music. With this hope burning bright in his mind, he hailed a cab and asked for 221B. Halfway there, his mobile rang. Glancing at it, his heart sank through the floor of the cab, hit the jagged pavement, and was promptly squashed by the milk truck following the cab. It was Sherlock. So much for a nice, relaxing evening; nope, only detective work and bullets lay in his foreseeable future.

_"SS in 221B. Call Lestrade. Where is your gun?" -SH_

John's heart was suddenly back in place, and it was hammering. The serial killer was in the flat with her. Sherlock was breathing the same air as a vicious, psychotic killer, unarmed, and asking for help. Oddly, it was this last realization that actually( he would later swear this actually happened) made his heart stutter. The only time he could remember Sherlock calling on Lestrade for rescue was… well, he couldn't recall a single instance in which that happened.

_"In room, bottom of laundry basket. Almost there. Get out!" - JW_

Leaning forward, John rapped the window between him and the cabbie. "I will pay you for every speeding ticket plus extra to get me there within the next three minutes."

Without a word, the cabbie stomped on the accelerator, and the cab leapt forward. John hit Lestrade on speed dial and pressed the phone to his ear.

"DI Lestrade," came the tired voice.

"It's John; Scarlet Scythe's in 221B with Sherlock."

The tiredness vanished, replaced with a steely growl. "Got it; Where are you?"

"A few blocks away."

"Armed?"

"Always." Not strictly true.

"Be careful. We're on our way."

Both men hung up simultaneously, both seeing red at the thought of Sherlock being within spitting distance of a violent murderer. True to their agreement, the cab skidded to a halt outside the flat in just over two minutes. Tossing a wad of cash over the seat, John slid out and entered the flat silently. The place was almost completely dark and quiet, the only light coming from the windows on the upper floor. Up the stairs he crept, using his military skill to remain unheard. Using the wall to cover his back, he moved towards the second set of stairs in a crouch, his eyes swiveling around to watch every flickering shadow, every movement in the darkened flat. He listened carefully for any sound of movement, a creak of floorboards or a click of heel on wood. He had almost reached the stairs when a thunderous crash came from upstairs, a sound of splintering wood and shattering glass making John's heart leap.

Abandoning stealth, John sprang up the stairs, adrenaline infusing his muscles with battle- ready bloodlust. In the semi- darkness, he saw a shadow, too big to be Sherlock, standing right outside his door. She was trapped in there. With a deafening roar, he launched himself at the killer, barreling him into the wall. The man, who was larger than John, gave a grunt of pain before shoving back. His counter was weaker because he was only using one hand. His other hand was tightly grasping a malignant- looking scythe, which he swung wildly past John's head, trying to reach his room. Snarling, John rammed his left shoulder into the larger man's chest, then followed with a swift and brutal fist to the stomach. The punch, however, did not have the desired effect. With his ear almost pressed against the killer's chest, he heard the breath whoosh out of him, and when his fist connected, the stomach muscles had clenched tightly, and it was almost like punching a wall; the only one who really took damage from it was John.

Incensed, the Scarlet Scythe used the pole of his weapon to lever John away from him. The move sent John stumbling back, dangerously close to the stairs; for a second, he teetered dangerously, desperately trying to find a center of gravity above the steps. Taking advantage of his momentary unbalance, the killer brought the bottom end of the pole to bear and slammed it against his left shoulder, exactly over his scar. HE gave a strangled cry of desperation and fear as he lost the battle against gravity and fell back. Somehow keeping his wits, John tucked his head in against his shoulders, shielding his neck from harm, and curled his torso slightly to avoid cracking his skull open, and managed to shift so that his side would connect with the steps instead of his spine.

Blimey, it was still incredibly painful. He felt, more than heard, a rib crack, and his shoulder slammed painfully onto the flat of one of the steps, wrenching it out of its socket and flipping him over so he was falling feet first. His shins collided with the edge of another step as he came to an agonizing stop at the bottom. Adrenaline still fueling him, John got up as quickly as he could, temporarily able to ignore his injuries. When he looked up the stairs, though, the Scarlet Scythe was looking down at him coldly, a pistol in hand.

Suddenly, from John's room came a crash as his bedside table sailed through the door and collided with the killer. Startled and off- kilter, his arm swung around, and he pulled the trigger, even as he fell to the floor with the furniture on top of him. John didn't hear the sound of the bullet going through the window, the wall, or the floor. Oh, god, he'd shot Sherlock! With renewed fervor, John bounded up the stairs, leapt over the pinned psycho, turned, kicked the gun out of his outstretched hand and stomped down on his leg, his lip curling in satisfaction when he heard a loud snap. The Scarlet Scythe bellowed in agony, writhing beneath the retired soldier's grinding heel. Turning to see if Sherlock had indeed been shot, John abandoned the prone serial killer.

"John!" he heard Sherlock shriek before a hand grabbed his collar and yanked him forward. A gunshot went off, and John cursed spectacularly. _The bastard had a second gun,_ he thought. This time, he heard the all- too familiar sound of a bullet striking flesh, and he felt no pain. He'd hit Sherlock again. Lights suddenly flicked on in the hallway, and he heard Lestrade's voice from below.

"Scotland Yard, drop your weapon!" When the serial killer lifted the gun again, a shot went off, and the Scarlet Scythe fell limp, a bullet hole just above his ear.

"Watson!" he heard Donovan yell.

"Up here!" he yelled back, flipping the light switch. Finally able to take a clear look at Sherlock, John's heart stopped. Wearing a light blue dress shirt, Sherlock would have looked stunning, were it not for the two large, rapidly expanding blood stains blossoming over her chest and stomach.

"John," Sherlock gasped.

Feeling panic clawing its way to the surface, he screamed," CALL AN AMBULENCE! SHE'S BEEN SHOT!" Carefully, he lowered her to the floor and pressed his hands against the wounds, trying to stem the flow of blood. She coughed wetly, vainly trying to say his name again.

"Why?!" he moaned softly to her. "Why did you let him shoot you?!"

Coughing again, this time bringing up blood, she tried to answer him, her grey eyes glassy.

"You- 're" a gasp and cough. "Too-" another cough. "Important- to me."

* * *

**Yes, it's a cliffhanger, no, I am not sorry, and yes, the trick the serial killer used actually works. If someone goes to punch you in the stomach, exhale all oxygen and tense abdominal muscles as much as possible, and the blow will cause minimal pain. For real, guys, this chapter murdered my brain. Drop a review if you've got the time or inclination, and I'll get the next chapter out as soon as I can. 'Till then, live long and prosper.-RCBC**


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